


Not Without You

by islandgirl_246



Series: Just You and Me [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Confrontations, Danger, Fear, M/M, Panic, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 02:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12201996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: “He’s gonna be mad,” Stiles murmured glancing at his mobile on the bedside table.A man who would stalk a person secretly for years was not a man to be trifled with or underestimated, and Stiles had done the one thing guaranteed to piss him off. He kept expecting everything to blow up in their faces.“So let him be mad. He’s not going to lay a hand on you, because nothing will stop me killing him this time if he does,” Peter promised, face flushed, dark.Stiles sat on the edge of the bed beside Peter who sat up, drawing the sheets over his torso.“You’re shaking.” Peter covered his hands with his own, growing serious as he attempted to rub some warmth back into Stiles’ fingers.





	Not Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all very much for the comments and continued support. 
> 
> WARNING!!!!!  
> I should warn this chapter is "triggery" for stalking; psychosis; panic; denial; sociopathic behaviour and everything Max is. The ending you will not like, it almost gave me heart palpitations and I wrote it, but if you’re brave proceed. I’ll understand if you need to scan to make sure you can read this.

If things had gone according to plan, Stiles would right now be walking down the aisle to Peter waiting at the other end. It was October. They had planned to have their wedding to coincide with Peter’s birthday. Instead, Stiles slipped off the tie yet again, looking defiantly at his reflection in the full-length mirror.

Beyond his back, Peter’s reflection lounged amidst the rumpled and probably still damp sheets. They’d spent the entire evening making love. They’d both needed it with today looming over them. It had been Peter’s way of reaffirming his place in Stiles’ life and Stiles just needing to feel his fiancé in every way possible. For a while it had chased away the butterflies and worries about what was to come.

Stiles was pleasantly sore and more than a little annoyed to have had to leave their bed, especially for a man like Asher Maximilian – but this could not wait; would not wait.

The fact that Asher Maximilian, billionaire extraordinaire had finagled his way into a dinner arrangement with Stiles in exchange for Peter’s release from prison and dropping the charges of attempted murder of Max, who was essentially Stiles’ stalker, still burned. He’d honestly seen no way around it.

Peter’s reputation in the legal fraternity had come at a cost. As much as he was feared and envied, he did have his enemies and there were any number of people he’d pissed off over the years, judges included, that would have loved to see him behind bars.

So this dinner was more than just Max getting his way. This was the culmination of Stiles’ real and justified fears that Max was out to make Peter suffer for loving him. The only way Stiles would allow Max to win was over his dead and cold corpse. Max wanted him, that was for certain – Stiles just hoped the man wasn’t considering his death as an option if Stiles didn’t succumb to whatever plan the psychopath was working up as their supposed “future” together.

His only consolation was the lifetime he was hoping to spend with Peter when this was all over. They’d been forced to put their plan into action two days ago, after Stiles’ impatience gave them no choice. Finstock, after hearing all the details of what had happened, apologised profusely to Stiles before coming up with a strategy along with Stiles’ PR team to revamp his image.

Both his and Peter’s had taken a hit after the arrest. But even the still constant buzzing of his phone with Twitter, Instagram and Facebook notifications of messages coming in from his Stylizers, Stiles was still annoyed that he even had to meet with Max. But at least the narrative had shifted from Peter’s brief arrest after an “unspecified incident” with billionaire Asher Maximilian, to grand news of the Hale/Stilinski engagement. There would be repercussions of course, but this was a safeguard, if you will – against any sudden decision Max could come up with to force a relationship between the two of them.

He and Peter had argued bitterly after Stiles went ahead and tweeted, despite agreement by everyone that they would assess all possible blow back from Max’s camp, if they went with that option. Stiles was gun-ho about making the announcement after everything that had been happening then; everyone else wanted to wait. So he’d done what he did best, made up his own damn mind and tweeted in the middle of the night while everyone was still asleep.

So now the deed was done. Peter had come to terms with it, however grudgingly, and the arrest was now merely a footnote in the anals of what had turned into a near meltdown of the internet trying to guess the date of the upcoming nuptials.

That had brought a needed smile to Stiles’ face, and eventually Peter’s though he was doubly worried now about Max’s possible response  . . . Which brought Stiles back to present as he fiddled with the tie in his hand, shaking it like it offended him.

It represented everything he did not want to think about.

His shirt was black, the slacks silver grey, the tie maroon – the colours had been stipulated by the multi-billionaire himself and Stiles was feeling defiant enough to skip the tie and tell Max to kiss his firm, happily sore ass if he made a fuss about it.

So he tossed the tie in the direction of Peter’s bed, though it sailed to the carpet before making contact with the rumpled sheets. The attorney on said sheets shifted, crawling his naked form toward the edge where he lay watching Stiles.

“Come here,” he said, as Stiles fiddled with the collar of his black Versace dress shirt.

“No, absolutely not. I’m not letting you get me back in that bed. That will not end well.”

“Stiles, you’re nearly vibrating with nerves. Come here . . . I promise to be good.”

Stiles gave him a side-eye, hoping this light banter would calm the visible tremor in his hands. It had been all fine and good to talk and plan and strategise what they were going to do and how Stiles would bring Asher Maximilian to his knees, but to actually get dressed to go meet the man himself – he was man enough to admit he was terrified.

Even more so as his phone buzzed again with another notification.

“He’s gonna be mad,” Stiles murmured glancing at his mobile on the bedside table.

A man who would stalk a person secretly for years was not a man to be trifled with or underestimated, and Stiles had done the one thing guaranteed to piss him off. He kept expecting everything to blow up in their faces.

“So let him be mad. He’s not going to lay a hand on you, because nothing will stop me killing him this time if he does,” Peter promised, face flushed, dark.

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed beside Peter who sat up, drawing the sheets over his torso.

“You’re shaking.” Peter covered his hands with his own, growing serious as he attempted to rub some warmth back into Stiles’ fingers.

Stiles blew out a rough breath. “He told me what to fucking wear, Peter. Like I’m some doll that he can dictate how to dress. What does he think I am? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Peter knew it was the nerves talking, yet . . . “We can still walk away from this; find another way.”

Stiles hung his head, inhaled and then exhaled again, shaking his head. “No. We’re not giving up or giving in . . . We walk away now and he’ll think of even more imaginative ways to make us pay. He’s already caused a drop off in clients to your firm and that’s only in the week since the arrest . . . I can do this. I know I can do this.”

What’s more, Stiles knew he had to do something.

That “you owe me” look Max had shot him at the station had turned into four long days of waiting for Max, or one of his people, to make the call and summon him to dinner. Four days of watching Laura and Peter worry, as long time clients began to cite excuses why they could no longer do business with Hale & Hale, although a few – more than they expected, in fact – had been honest enough to let them know the multi-billionaire was seeking out the law firm’s clients and either issuing small threats or getting downright dirty behind the scenes. Those who had proof were too scared now to come forward.

That had been the last straw for Stiles. When they’d all came together again to revamp strategy, he’d been determined that they needed to strike then, instead of waiting for Max to continue destroying them. The others wanted to wait. Stiles wouldn’t. So Stiles had tweeted.

The call came next morning.

++++++

Peter took his face in hand. “I know you can do this, but the point is we don’t have to. There are options, Stiles.”

Stiles stared into those blue eyes that he loved so much. “We’re doing this, and I know you won’t let anything happen to me.”

Peter exhaled. “Damn straight. Any time you feel unsafe, you’re out of there. Just say the word and Boyd will be in there in a flash.”

“That’s if he doesn’t find the bugs . . .”

“He hasn’t yet, and we’re going to operate under the assumption he doesn’t know they are there.”

++++++

It had been touch and go to find enough of an avenue into Max’s house to plant listening devices. It was a surprise to them all how easy that had been, but Boyd had proved what a devious fucker he could be. None of them had even known that Boyd had been keeping tabs on Max’s movements from the time they’d found out he’d been stalking Stiles.

“Part of my job as security,” Boyd had said as if it’d been no big deal.

So they’d been able to get someone in to plant devices. The repairman who turned up on the routine gas maintenance issue at the mansion was a man whose cousin Boyd had save a few years back as a cop. The man figured he owed Boyd and the security consultant had used that to their advantage.

The man was a regular at the mansion, so there was no reason to suspect him. Boyd had made sure the man was clean and their connection untraceable. No one knew exactly how.

++++++

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Peter promised again.

Stiles nodded but his breathing was ragged and Peter could literally see his pulse beating erratically in his throat. “You’d better because I will come back to haunt your ass until the day you die.”

The attorney laid a finger across his lips. “No talk of death and dying. You are going to have dinner and leave knowing you will never have to see him again, I promise. Just as we planned, ok?”

“Ok.” He nodded vigorously. “You’ll be there. I know you’ll be there.” He rushed as if convincing or reminding himself of the fact.

“Every step of the way.”

“You should get dressed. We have less than an hour.” It was nerves that led Stiles to get dressed well before the appointed time to leave.

Peter slid out of bed.

“I love you, Peter,” Stiles said suddenly. “However this goes down. I love you.”

In response Peter walked back and kissed him. “I know.”

++++++

The limo picked him up in front of the building. When Max had wanted to collect Stiles from his own apartment across town, Stiles had put his foot down. He would get dressed where he the hell he wanted to get dressed and that was the end of it. Max would either pick him up where Stiles said or not at all.

At that bit of defiance the man had chuckled as if greatly delighted, but acquiesced. Stiles had been shocked. He’d been expecting more of a fight, especially after the social media blast days before and the resulting media furore. The man didn’t even mention it.

_What was Max up to?_

When the man continued to give instructions Stiles had almost relaxed, almost. And then, just before Stiles would have hung up, Max had stalled him with, “Oh, by the way, Stiles. These little displays of defiance will cost you. So, you can be picked up from Peter’s under one condition.”

 _Still no mention of the engagement announcement._ Stiles had begun to sweat a little. His heart jumped to his throat. Beside him, Peter who’d been antsy, went still in response to Stiles’ rigid form. “What’s the condition?” he asked apprehensively.

“I get to pick your wardrobe for the evening.”

Stiles balked at the suggestion. “What the fuck does that mean? Do I look like a fucking Ken doll to you,” he’d asked in anger, as Peter laid a hand on his to beat back the panic his lover knew was rising to the surface.

Max had laughed, uproariously. Even Peter could hear it through the phone and clenched his own fists.

“Oh, Stiles, you are such a delight to me. Black shirt, grey slacks, maroon tie. Jacket is optional. See you at 6. And Stiles, I wouldn’t be so quick to test what I will and won’t allow from this point forward, if I were you. You’ve done quite enough already.” The man’s voice had gone from joking to deathly hard in the flash of a moment.

Without waiting for Stiles’ acceptance of the “dress code”, Max had hung up.

Stiles had fumed about it for two days, before they got to planning possible scenarios for dinner. But each time he’d recalled the call for the Saturday night dinner, he’d locked himself in a bathroom and allowed the shakes to come. This he did not let Peter see; his fiancé was dealing with enough already.

The only thing that kept him on track was knowing they had a plan in place.

Asher Maximilian had made three fatal mistakes. The first was targeting Stiles. The second was targeting Stiles’ fiancé, family and friends. The third was thinking Stiles had no recourse but this – that he had some kind of control over a man, who for almost 29 years had pretty much marched to the beat of his own drum. Stiles was nobody’s foregone conclusion and certainly not a man like this. He just needed to control his anxiety and panic.

That thought helped steady him as the limo pulled up, and a man got out to open the door for him to slip in. Behind them, another vehicle roared to life. Boyd was at the wheel. It was another thing on which Stiles had been adamant. His security would be near. Boyd would remain outside, but he would be close enough and that was non-negotiable.

He was sure the concession would also cost him, but he didn’t trust Max to be honourable and there was no world in which he would pretend otherwise.

++++++

Boyd parked as instructed at the far end of the circular driveway. He kept an eye on Stiles as he climbed from the plush cream vehicle and started up the stairs, and the earbud he had in picked up the sounds in the house as Max instructed whom Boyd assumed was a server on where to place a platter.

At least the bugs were still working. The man in his arrogance appeared not to have swept for devices. Maybe he thought there had been no opportunities, after all even the gas man had been someone who was accustomed to visiting the Maximilian Mansion.

Stiles though, was a picture of confidence that Boyd knew was only the actor playing a role. He just hoped the actor could keep it up throughout the evening and give nothing away. If they were lucky, they’d have what they needed by the end of the night.

Boyd had to admit, if he’d been so inclined he could absolutely understand what Peter was willing to kill for. In the past year-and-a-bit that he’d been on Stiles’ payroll, he’d come to admire him beyond his star qualities. He’d been a fan ever since he saw Stiles’ photos with chronically ill children at a hospital somewhere in NYC a couple years ago. He’d been talking and laughing with the children. No one had even known he was going to visit; he’d simply dropped by unannounced, and the photos that went viral had him playing a tamer version of tag with a few kids who were well enough to move around on their own or with the help of other “aunties” in the hospital. The photo had been snapped by a parent who was there at the time.

Unknown to Stiles, Boyd had begun contributing yearly to Stiles’ Foundation from that moment. In fact, he was sure Stiles still had no idea his own bodyguard was a contributor. He respected the man’s strength, determination and judgement. They needed all those, especially tonight.

The past weeks had not been easy for any of them, but he had promised the others Stiles would be safe and he intended to keep that promise. He would take Asher Maximilian’s life and happily pay the price, before he ever allowed the man to harm Stiles, or anyone else, more than he’d already done.

So he sat in the car, with eyes tacked to the front door, listening device stuck in his ear – quietly assembling the weapon whose parts had been hidden throughout the cabin of the vehicle. Just as expected, the scanners at the gate had picked up nothing unusual.

Boyd was ready – for anything.

++++++

“You’re missing a tie, Stiles,” Max said, as his butler let Stiles in the door.

Stiles swallowed.

It seemed tonight Max’s staff was on full duty. That surprised Stiles a bit. He’d been expecting another visit void of any witnesses in case something went wrong. But as he thought it, the actor realised that these people were on Max’s payroll anyway, so the chances of them going against what he told them, was probably next to negligible. Max could still do anything to him in here, even with witnesses.

He forced that thought from his mind.

“I didn’t like it. Made me look like a gigolo or a rent boy . . . unless that’s what you were going for,” Stiles challenged, straightening his posture, determined not to back down.

Max’s lips quirked up. “Hmmm, we can discuss what you owe for the tie later.”

And that was enough. Stiles was already strung too tight and a release was inevitable.

Stiles blew. “Listen, fuck you!”

The staff went still and he saw one of the girls’ back go ramrod straight and her eyes pop open, but she quickly closed her mouth and continued taking a covered dish to the table as if nothing had happened, but obviously nervous.

Max was rigid; face expressionless, green eyes cold.

But Stiles was far from done. “You may be able to drag me here with threats and get me to dress up like a damn puppet to your strings,” he tugged at the shirt collar, popping it in the man’s face, “but I am not here for your amusement, so let’s get that straight. You got a problem with what I have on, we can settle that and I can leave right now. I will not suffer these little digs and comments of yours in silence. I am not one of your employees to be muzzled nor am I going to put up with your insane expectations in silence.”

Max’s gaze was hard and the man was silent for so long that Stiles thought he saw the staff begin to sweat, but he refused to give an inch on this. He would not cow-tow to this man. He’d done enough of that. He was claiming his life back by the end of tonight . . . _or die trying. But, gosh, don’t tell Peter that._

“Paul, if you will?” Max said, smoothly addressing a man who approached and began to scan Stiles with a portable scanner.

It took longer than Stiles would have expected and when the security man was done he glanced to Max, but Stiles was not sure what message passed between the two. He knew he had nothing on him.

“Why don’t we sit,” Max continued, as if Stiles had not just told him to go fuck himself. It made Stiles nervous.

“And Stiles, we can forego the tie discussion for now, but I will not be spoken to like that in my own house. This is my only warning about it. I promise you won’t like the consequences if I have to repeat myself.”

Stiles bit down on his cheeks to keep his tongue in check. When he felt he had himself under control, he proceeded to the chair being held out for him by a butler, across the table from Max.

++++++

Peter listened from close enough to the mansion as dinner progressed. John sat beside him in the driver’s seat, Derek and one of the security team were in the back.

Peter had to give it to Max, the man was a consummate conversationalist and it showed. He tried to discuss all of Stiles’ likes and dislikes, some that even drew Peter’s brows upwards. _Since when was Stiles allergic to calamari and how the hell did Max know that?_

As if sensing Peter’s discomfort with some of the revealed details, John said, “He hasn’t had that allergy since he was in his early teens. The first time he tried it he broke out in a rash and the hospital said it was an allergy. He tried it again on one of his more adventurous stages a couple years ago and had no reaction. The only way Maximilian could know that was probably through Stiles’ hospital records.”

It didn’t make Peter relax any and only underscored how much Max had delved into their lives. But it was silly to get worked up over what Max did and didn’t know.

Besides, they were going to use it to bury him.

++++++

“What is this obsession with delving into every part of my life? I’ve told you already, I’m happily engaged. I fully intend to marry Peter before the end of the year and there isn’t a damn thing I’ll allow you to do to stop me,” Stiles said, dabbing his lips after swallowing a mouthful of fish.

“Are you trying to get me riled, Stiles?” Max rumbled softly, but there was just something a little unhinged beneath. “That’s not particularly wise.” He raised the fork to his lips in a manner that Stiles supposed was designed to be seductive. There was only one problem with that – it actually made Stiles nauseous.

“I don’t care what you feel, Mr. Maximilian. You can get fucked for all I care, but I can promise it won’t be by me,” he finished, sipping the delicious wine.

Max’s lips thinned. “I’ve done everything to be civil to you, Stiles; to ease you into this transition as best as I can.”

Stiles set the glass down and sputtered. “This . . .,” he was dumbfounded. “This transition? Is that what you call threatening my fiancé with prison unless I go out with you? Destroying his business that he’s worked years to build because you somehow think he’s in your way? Is that what you call stalking me for years and harassing everyone in my life in some lame attempt to get close to me? . . . A transition?

“Let’s get something straight, if you want honesty, there is no future in which I will ever belong to you or want anything to do with you, Mr. Asher. Maximilian,” he purposely punctuated the name. “There is no transition in which I will ever feel anything but disgust for you. How can you claim to know me, yet not know the very fundamentals – which is I could never be with someone that has done the things you’ve done to me, my family, friends and my fiancé’s friends and associates.

“If you’d had the balls, like Peter did, to approach me head on, to invite me out with a view to dating me, back before Peter was a part of my life, I might have considered it. But no, you didn’t want a lover, a companion. You wanted a thing you could control and I can’t and won’t allow that.”

After listening to Stiles’ tirade, Max lifted his own glass to his lips and took a healthy swallow. “What makes you think I will _allow_ **_you_** to marry that lawyer?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles responded, setting his utensils down, “maybe the fact that I don’t give a fuck what you want. I’m done, understand? Leave me and mine alone,” he said with finality.

“I’ve told you before how I feel about the way you speak to me.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” Stiles voice climbed to a yell.

Little did he know John and Derek were outside restraining Peter from advancing once again on _Castle Max_.

Stiles’ voice shook with emotion. “You’ve stalked me long enough to know that I’m not the kind of shrinking violet that will throw up my hands and just give in because you say you want me. What really is your plan here? To remain in the background infiltrating the lives of everyone close to me? To what end?”

Max set his own utensils down, pausing consumption of this scrumptious meal for just a few moments. “Why are you refusing to believe that I love you?”

If Stiles had been eating he was sure he would have choked on the vittles’ and thrown up all over the table. As it was, his stomach soured and he was no longer sure he could keep up the pretence of civility. He felt like pulling out his hair by the roots.

“You expect me to believe, after everything you’ve done, for one second that this had anything to do with love?” Stiles took the napkin from his lap and dashed it onto the table, leaning forward and gripping the edges of the table so he didn’t launch the plate at Max’s smug face.

 _Could this man actually be serious?_ Asher Maximilian was a mad man.

His expressions told Stiles he was – more’s the pity. “What you’ve done isn’t love; it may be ownership, control, but it sure as hell isn’t love. Love is what Peter and I have together. Something built on mutual respect and understanding of each other – who we are at the core; the good and bad. It’s wanting to do whatever we can to make the other happy, comfortable, secure. When has that ever entered your warped thought processes?”

Max looked at him like he was alien. “Who you are is because of what I’ve done to make you into who and what you are. Your foundation is built on the very rocks that I’ve laid for your career. How can you say that isn’t love?”

Stiles tried to choke down a response, but he must not have been successful.

“No, what you’ve done,” he paused, getting emotional; realising that a very real tear was making its way from the corner of his right eye. He’d promised himself to stay calm, but that wish was out the window. “What you’ve done is ruin the very things I enjoyed the most – my acting, my foundation, even the projects I was hoping to get involved with; it’s all tainted now by you. Do you think I would stand in front a camera after this not knowing if the reason I’m there is because you bribed someone? All that’s ruined for me now.”

Max was quiet for a while. Stiles was ready to get the hell out of here. Certainly they had enough now.

“I won’t let you go, Stiles. I can’t. I’ve invested too much.”

“Then put a ball-park figure to it and let me pay you the fuck back!” Stiles demanded.

“You couldn’t afford it.”

“Let me decide what I can and can’t afford.”

Max met his eyes and must not have liked what he saw there. “I said no, and that’s final.”

Stiles pushed back his chair – the second time in this house at this table. “Well then we have nothing left to discuss. You can continue stalking from a distance or whatever creepy thing you decide to indulge in and I’ll continue keeping my distance from you and everything and everyone you control. I don’t intend to give Peter up, any more than you say you won’t give me up. But I’ll fight you for my own piece of mind. That I promise you.”

“You walk out that door and I can’t promise Peter will remain free. Think about this choice very carefully, Stiles.”

Stiles gave him one last scathing look. “I have, and we’ll take our chances. As I said before, you can go fuck yourself!” For the second time he walked from the house without a backward glance.

He was done playing Asher Maximilian’s games. Time now for Max to play his. By the time he climbed into the jeep next to Boyd, he was already tweeting away to his fans.

++++++

And the media blew up – again.

The headlines from one coast to the next were insane. The entertainment writers, bloggers, commentators, all reputable news stations were discussing the implications of the bombshells the Stilinski and Hale camps had been dropping since 8:29 p.m. the night before.

This time he had surrendered to Allison’s and Finstock’s suggestion of an increased and joint PR effort to manage possible fall-out and make sure their side of the story was told, given Maximilian’s considerable resources.

Max’s lawyers had hit back, hard and brutal. Charges had been filed against Peter, but the Argent and Hale & Hale law firms had also joined forces and been just as brutal with their counter suits, and by evening Peter was out on bail and the social media networks were in meltdown. The hits just kept coming.

But it was clear to everyone – Peter Hale and Stiles Stilinski were a team. In fact, despite their fame and fortunes, they were being painted in the media, through brilliant PR, as the underdogs in this surprising turn of events. The hardest thing for Max to fight was the stalking claims, especially when Stiles’ friends and some of Peter’s clients began to go on record about how they were duped into working with or were threatened by the man.

Infallible Maximilian stocks around the globe were taking a beating. Shareholders were being called out about why they were allowing the billionaire who ran their operations to victimise those less able to fight him, and the cycle went on.

The real nail in the coffin, Stiles kept for last.

When Max’s camp tried to show their might but pressing on with even more outrageous charges, Stiles finally released the recordings of the “dinner”, along with documents about Max’s most underhanded dealings – and broke the internet.

Unfortunately for Norman, the film was pulled from several cinemas which refused to show a film whose actor had unknowingly been stalked and manipulated through most of his roles, although Stiles quickly came to Norman’s defence against some that wished to tarnish his reputation. If he ever found himself in front of a camera again, he vowed it would be Norman’s.

Underground hackers that Danny knew; people that Max had crossed in his previous interactions began to come out of the woodwork then with piles upon piles of evidence about the billionaire’s underhanded tactics. Owners of businesses that he’d forced out of operation or blackmailed into selling over to him were too happy to stick it to the mighty Asher Maximilian, now it was known that he was under attack himself.

That’s when the FBI showed up at the law firm of Hale & Hale.

The now tight-knit group barely recognised the passing of Christmas and the turn of another year as the FBI built their case on the evidence the joint law firms had since accumulated.

As expected, Max’s money had enabled him to disappear, but the FBI assured Stiles and his extensive family that this disappearance wouldn’t last forever. They’d catch him. They had a growing laundry list of charges waiting to dispense.

Asher Maximilian would likely never see the light of day again once he was brought to trial. Stiles and Peter could live with that.

They gave Boyd some time off. Stiles’ now trusted friend and chief of security, along with his team had been working perhaps harder than any of them to make sure Stiles and Peter were safe. He deserved time away.

++++++

Max was livid. It could not end like this.

He could not live in a world where Stiles existed and was not his. He’d been lenient hadn’t he? Allowed that lawyer’s grubby paws to hold and caress what was his. Allowed him to make love to what was his. But running him from his own home and sullying his immaculate name . . . that would never do.

He paced the dark confines of the library at his “new residence”, waiting for his lawyer to make contact with the assassin. If he couldn’t have Stiles, no one would. They both had to go. Regardless of what happened to him after this point, he would not let the two make a fool of him for the world to see.

This situation displeased him and was simply “unacceptable”.

**Author's Note:**

> I rewrote it several times until it felt right. And I know, it’s unfair to end it there but the next update is soon. Leave me your thoughts below. The final update will be posted in another day or so. Prepare yourselves.


End file.
